


i will plant you a garden

by firepixel



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Hanahaki Disease, Unrequited Love, lapslock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 10:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8369092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firepixel/pseuds/firepixel
Summary: all seeds grow.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i started this a long time ago and as always i wonder if i wrote _enough_ but hopefully there'll be more to come, if inspiration cooperates and grows my ideas into something useful ;-;

when you first become aware of how the best phrase to describe how you feel about zen is " _he steals the breath right out of my lungs_ ", you don't really dwell on it longer than the chat lasts. it's a pretty poetic way to put it, nothing more. it's true, to an extent; conversations with him do leave you slightly dizzy, just a tad breathless, like you've been trying to talk to him out loud at an altitude. he has a habit of blindsiding you with unexpectedly sweet messages and nicknames - you don't think it's abnormal that your lungs constrict a little each time that happens. it's normal, isn't it? jaehee did describe him as _breathtaking_ , several times.

all these hints, and you're still not prepared for it to become literal.

x

the dizziness intensifies, at first. it leaves you winded, just like after a run, and your lungs burn a little. the pain starts slow. it's an almost sweet kind of burning, like the measured slide of a knife out of flesh. a knife you weren't aware was plunged in you, millimeter by millimeter, until it came to this. and 'this' entails -  
_this_ entails fear. it's worrying in its own right, feeling like this, and when the burning doesn't show any signs of going away in a week, you're on the cusp of calling seven to ask him for a doctor.

you don't really get to, though. mostly because the moment your finger hovers over his name, your body decides to cough your lungs out without any input from you. you end up on the floor when a sudden flash of dizziness hits, almost blinded by its intensity,  nails digging into the front of your shirt. when your hand flies up to your mouth, though, your mind very quickly leaves the idea of calling seven or an ambulance behind -  
curled up on your palm is a single daisy petal.

×××

you adjust to this new development remarkably well for someone who just realized they have flowers growing in their lungs. there's very little you can do about it, anyway - all known sources unanimously state there are only two ways out of this. surgery, or redamancy. you've always been terrified of the former. perhaps, though, the latter would be equally terrifying? or you could always just wait it out and choke to death on petals, let this unasked-for longing suffocate you.

you sleep less. the ache in your lungs pushes feelings to the forefront of your mind, a near-constant reminder, coloring every breath with the scent of daisies and longing. at least, the petals are easy to hide. they're small. almost translucent. they shimmer between your fingers when you bring your hand away, wiping it on the comforter. it's not really about sleeping, you think; it's about the terror of waking up unable to breathe, chest clogged with blossoms much like sleep in the corners of your eyes. so you avoid waking up any more than you have to.  
( ~~part of it might be the misguided hope that you can't get worse if you are paying attention the whole time.~~ )

that leaves you with a lot of spare time, though - and you find yourself writing. pages upon pages, scribbles of ink punctuated with slivers of white, a notebook so full of words they spill over onto the floor when you shake it out. you notice that your characters never speak around midway into the notebook; you realize it's because you yourself have not spoken in days approximately a chapter after. you curl love stories like rosebuds across the page in a loose scrawl, a blind attempt at art. they never blossom into anything good, never develop into anything comforting, a horrendously overgrown rose crawling its way to the other side of the page. you slash a line through the last half page, hacking away at its stem, words peeling themselves away and falling withered to the floor of your mind. your feet rest on a carpet of white. it's soft and cool against your toes and shuffles softly when you bend down to add a bit more.

\- that's how writing goes, at least.

xxx

the funniest thing, the funniest of things, is how zen never notices. he takes your text about having too much work at face value, considerate and sweet. bothers you less afer you pretend to sleep through one call and rasp your way through another (he believes you when you say it's because you just woke up - innocence _white, translucent_ ). it translates to a pain less immediate and more subdued. it resigns itself to lurking in the corners of your ribs instead of sharply making its presence known with every drop of honey from zen. you call it an improvement and try to ignore the aching loneliness that the flowers sink their roots into. stupid, _stupid_ ; you can't make him love you like this. you don't know how. you don't know how to tell someone how you feel when your own lungs refuse to dip below the shallowest of breaths, so that's how deep your courage goes.

( _'i_ _deas all look the same while they're just seeds. too bad it's usually too late to figure out which ones are weeds'_ \- ' _out_ ' underlined twice in sharp black ink)

xxx

you wonder if that's what it grew into, your distancing yourself from zen. a flower, when denied, grows towards sunlight.  
jaehee shines, when she's happy, and zen makes her happy a lot.  
it's as natural as the stems winding their way around your trachea.

xxxx

all seeds grow. the last light you've had was the cold glow of your phone screen above your face in utter darkness. the curtains were thick enough to block out everything else, but he never put up any curtains against jaehee.

you watch them flirt, messages flickering their way across your screen, your hand pressed to your mouth. the itching in the back of your throat intensifies, and you scramble into the bathroom, stumble over the doorway, catch yourself against the sink. you heave into the sink, bracing yourself on the rim. the ceramic is soon covered in white daisy petals.

( _'t_ _oo late'_ circled several times, ' _too bad'_ scratched out with what looks like a fork, judging by the marks)

xxxxxx

the mirror is cool against your forehead. it's dark, so you can't make out much more than a vivid splash of dark crimson across the white, thick and cloying. you leave a red smear across the glass when your body slides down inch by inch, arms too tired to support you and a hand over your heart.

you're only dimly aware of the world dimming by increments, mind slipping into quiet, copper and daisies on your tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> some notes i guess:  
> "blind attempt at art" - art more specifically can refer to painting, which basically translates to painting while blind = trying to write about love in mc's current situation = hopeless wish, self-indulgent but ultimately not satisfying/comforting
> 
> "every drop of honey" - nectar, flowers in bloom, sweetness - except honey isn't supposed to go bad
> 
> "slash a line through" - striking out words literally, hacking at the beast that is an overgrown "rose" (from rosebuds, essentially words) on another level, hacking at the daisies on another
> 
> ....actually i have no fuckin idea what i just wrote i just rmbr wanting to include a lot of really vague metaphors
> 
> if anyone wants it, im thinking of a subsequent chapter thing for jaehee (buttercups??), jumin (violets????), and maybe red roses for 707 i have a few small ideas ;-;-;-; (green chrysanthemums for yoosung?????) 
> 
> please leave a kudos to support me, it really makes a difference because it's how i gauge which direction to write in <3


End file.
